


The Price of a Prince

by angelblack3



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Dubious Consent, M/M, Omega John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 08:44:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1260142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelblack3/pseuds/angelblack3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is an Omega that must seek work with the royal family. The duties he must fulfill are not at all what he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Price of a Prince

**Author's Note:**

  * For [michi_thekiller](https://archiveofourown.org/users/michi_thekiller/gifts).



> About forever and a day ago I promised Michi I would write her an underage fic. And then I turned it into an Omega AU. And then I rewrote it over and over again.
> 
> So after much trial and tribulation I bring you this one shot that I hope is half as hot as I wanted it to be.

Sherlock hated being present for his brother’s performances. Oh, the common folk might have thought they were the ones who held their king’s attention, but they were all fools. Mycroft did this to establish his place at the throne. To show how well he could hold power over this land and the commoners would relay their lord’s wisdom at the dinner table, unable to discuss anything but the flitting distractions to their dull lives. 

All of it was hideously tedious. An accord here, a disciplinary action there, and occasionally a merciful pass thrown in for good measure. It made Sherlock’s teeth grind. 

He did his best not to fidget in the seat off to his brother’s right side. He kept his mutterings to a minimum, only letting them slip when the mindless masses were particularly grating. A little longer, and then he could go back to his studies unhindered for a full week. 

Apparently, his appearance at his brother’s side was meant to waylay the rumors that there was unrest in the royal family. Vicious court gossip that the youngest of the Holmes’ line had plans to usurp the current ruler. 

Honestly. Idiocy knew no bounds. 

Sherlock didn’t see how filling up a vacant seat would possibly quell the whispers, but here he was. And by the looks of the quick glances they thought he couldn’t see, he was playing his part well. 

Time passed, and Sherlock was beginning to consider that he would rather endure   
Mycroft interrupting delicate experiments intermittently for the rest of his life, than sit through another moment of this torture. But then a young man stepped forward for his turn to speak. 

At first, he was entirely unassuming. His clothes weren’t ragged, but they were rough, and worn down from long use. The tanned skin, corded muscle, and the evidence of calluses on his hands all pointed towards a farm hand. 

But there was an uncommon pride in those blue eyes that caught Sherlock’s attention. 

And it was the delicious and rare smell of an untaken Omega that made him sit up in his chair. 

Sherlock tried to glean more from the boy. He may have been young, but he was well past the age of his first heat. He should have already taken up a bond partner, if not a full mate. 

Mycroft asked him who he was and why he had sought an audience, though Sherlock was under the strong suspicion that his brother knew every damned soul from here to the neighboring kingdom. He certainly kept track of every Omega in the land, to watch out for any potential candidates that would breed fine heirs. 

His brother was still in need of one. And suddenly vicious suspicion and greed stabbed through Sherlock’s mind. He wouldn’t let Mycroft lay his fat fingers on this one. 

He didn’t know where the possessive thought came from, but he didn’t feel inclined to examine it. The thought of this Omega under the care of any other Alpha, or even a Beta, made him choke down a low growl. 

He realized the boy was responding, and shoved away his storming thoughts.

His name was John Watson, and he had come on behalf of his family. John continued on a tedious explanation of his father’s gambling habits and a predictable death from those he had attempted to cheat. He and his sister could not afford to manage the farm themselves, and had travelled, oh great Lord, to serve—

It was at this point that Sherlock stopped listening entirely. That certainly explained why he hadn’t bonded. He’d been too busy cleaning up his father’s messes. Add that to taking care of his sister, and he would never have the time to look for a bond partner he could trust. 

Sherlock scanned the room, looking for the sister that had doubtlessly come with him. A girl with straw hair and arms as strong as her brother’s was attempting to look unassuming against the wall. Her neck craned as she tried to see over the nobles that circled the space of floor meant for visiting speakers.

Sherlock focused his sense of smell, and found that John was the only untouched Omega in the room. And based on a posture that indicated she was used to getting her way, John’s sister was an Alpha. The fact that she had been forced to grant control of their fates to her brother, as he was the only male of the household, was doubtlessly a very heavy blow to her pride.

This would mean that she would be more than happy to be separated from him, in order to prove her worth to her peers. Being seen as a ‘helpless maiden’ that needed the voice of her Omega brother to survive would grind at her nerves for a very long time. 

“Boring,” Sherlock called out in the middle of John’s declarations to servitude. Sherlock was the only one who was privy to Mycroft sighing heavily through his nose. 

The boy was caught off guard by the interruption, but the anger had no time to emerge before Sherlock continued, “What use does a field worker have in the halls of your King?”

John’s eyes narrowed, but he had clearly expected this question. He didn’t hesitate in responding, “My uncle was a knight and died in the act of serving his King, my lord. He taught me the basics of the duties of a knighthood. I do not have much training, but I would ask to be a squire, my lord. Please let your King’s own knights decide if I-“

“Again, boring,” Sherlock cut in. He enjoyed the rise of anger behind the boy’s eyes. He took even greater enjoyment out of seeing the Omega visibly clench his fists to hold back what he wanted to say, “Your king’s army is more than overstocked,” he continued.

Sherlock barely refrained from sneering his brother’s title, “The last thing His Majesty needs is another mouth to feed that’s good for nothing but—“he stopped himself from saying ‘becoming cannon fodder’ and quickly replaced it with, “riding into battle.”

Sherlock watched the boy’s face flush, and found it to be a pleasing sight. He looked at John’s clenched hands, and noticed the hard work that had gone into caring for his scrap of land, and noted the bravery it must have taken to make this journey. Sherlock considered the amount of pride he must have swallowed in order to beg for scraps from his monarch. 

In noticing these things, Sherlock immediately knew three things about John. 

One, the Omega was not afraid of hard work.

Two, he was intelligent enough to know when to go to those in power, and to bring something of practical worth. As well as not to let his own temper take over his common sense. 

And three, the brave thing would do _anything_ to keep his family safe.

“Tell me John,” he said after a small and humiliating silence had filled the halls, “do you know how to read?” 

The question pulled John from his hot anger. Surprised, it took him a few moments to reply, “My father and uncle taught me as much as they could, sir.”

“So you can read minor business ledgers and perhaps some letters from a garrison. Better than most,” Sherlock pretended to mull over this while Mycroft surveyed his brother from the corner of his eye. 

“Your Majesty,” Sherlock proclaimed in a voice loud enough for everyone in the hall to hear, “your armies are practically overflowing with people willing to die in your name. Whilst I remain woefully shorthanded of assistants.”

No one dared to mention that the reason he was always shorthanded was because Sherlock either dismissed them entirely or made them run weeping, or in one memorable instance, screaming, from his labs. 

“Young Watson is clearly good with his hands, better read than most peasants, and his constitution is clearly nothing to scoff at.”

While John would normally have been flattered by this praise, he was only confused now. Just a moment ago the man had said he wasn’t even good enough to shovel horse shit. Now he was piling on the flattery. 

But John wasn’t one to waste an opportunity. He waited to see where this lead. His options were severely limited anyway. His future either held whatever the strange lord was going to suggest, or selling himself to some member of high blood. 

John wasn’t a fool; he knew that both his body and his virginity were extremely marketable. Even before coming to the city, with its brothels and profitable morals, his father had more than once threatened to sell him to the highest bidder if he didn’t earn his keep in their house. 

Harriet always promised to take him away if that ever became a reality. But it was always easier to simply put up with their monster of a parent and tend to the farm. When they’d received the news that he’d had his head smashed in, John hadn’t wept. 

He hadn’t felt happy, but he certainly hadn’t grieved. 

“Put him to work with me,” Sherlock continued, “and I’ll give him a good sum of money each lunar passing. He’ll more than likely pay off his father’s debts and begin to accumulate his own wages in, oh, three years?”

Some couldn’t keep their gasps of shock quiet, and John was one of them. He hadn’t mentioned his father’s owed sum, but if it was enough to squabble away their inheritance, it was nothing to scoff at. Even if it was the wasted money of a couple of farm hands. Anyone else in his position would have paid for that debt with their blood and sweat for at least ten years. 

Mycroft leaned over the side of his throne, as if to discuss the details, when instead he was hissing, “What exactly are you doing?”

“Getting something out of this tedium,” Sherlock hissed back.

“You _were_ getting something out of this,” Mycroft insisted, “You were getting my reluctant avoidance to whatever God forsaken thing it is you do in your wing of the castle. If you wanted that revoked, brother, you could have merely mentioned it.”

Their continued conference was going to look odd to the outsiders, so Sherlock named his conditions while he could.

“You’re always insistent that I need someone to watch out for me. That I should find someone who will, how did you put it,” Sherlock sneered, “’curb my eccentricities’? Let him get used to me and my…temperament, and I’m certain he’ll make a halfway decent bodyguard when he ages. You wouldn’t trust anyone you’d simply paid with coin anyway. You want loyalty, and I think you’ve found someone that fits your indecently high expectations.”

“But a virgin Omega as your research assistant? I asked you to attend in order to _quell_ rumors Sherlock, not cause more indecent ones to arise,” Mycroft retorted. 

Sherlock rushed ahead with another point, “You know that I do need someone for the more tedious work. Along with offering me insight that isn’t horrendously asinine. Give me the privacy I asked for, and I can guarantee that you would never find a more suitable companion.

As for the inevitable rumors, you will undoubtedly use them to your advantage. While the whole council can be occupied with idle gossip over my new ‘friend’, I’m certain you can use it as an effective distraction for more nefarious means. Not that you would ever partake in underhanded activities with your council members, _dearest brother_ ,” Sherlock couldn’t help but quip. 

His king brother remained stoic, and after a heartbeat longer Sherlock began to fear that he would lose an interesting opportunity as well as remaining undisturbed with his studies.

But Mycroft nodded and turned back around with a small smile smeared onto his face, “It’s decided then. John Watson, you will work for my brother immediately. A servant will lead you to your new rooms,” Mycroft waved a hand, and someone stepped from the shadows and directed John away. 

Before the boy stepped away, stunned by the rapid change, he managed to remember something. 

“My king, thank you, but, my sister-“he looked helplessly in the direction of where his sibling was supposedly standing. 

An unheard annoyed breath left Sherlock. He had arrangements to make. The sooner they were done, the better. He sent an expectant look towards Mycroft.

The king sighed in a way that was only audible to his nuisance of a brother, “She may work in the kitchens. If she’s half as capable as you are, she’ll have no trouble adapting, I’m sure.” 

John still looked uncertain, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. He bowed gratefully, and quickly followed the impatient servant. 

When John and his sister were gone, Sherlock rose from his seat to head to his own quarters. But before he could leave, his brother waved him closer with a small flick of his wrist. 

Gritting his teeth, Sherlock leaned in to hear what he had to say.

“Keep it discreet,” Mycroft murmured, “If I’m going to supposedly use this situation to my advantage, it would be better to keep certain people guessing. And I would so hate for the family reputation to be tarnished due to your inability to remain restrained in your…behaviors, brother.”

Sherlock said nothing in response, merely scoffed quietly under his breath. The only way these idiots would possibly notice anything was if he decided to claim John in the middle of the courtroom. 

He pondered over the thought, but dismissed it as fantasy. For now. 

He decided to take action later that night. It wouldn’t do to cause a scene with everyone awake and wandering in the castle. Hardly anyone ventured in his wing, and it became practically deserted at night. Only the occasional royal guard, assigned by Mycroft, passed through the halls. And when Sherlock was done bribing the Captain, it took care of that minor problem as well. 

By the time he’d ensured absolute privacy, it was already past sunset. Excellent. The assumption that most of the palace was asleep would more than likely benefit him. 

The room that had been set up for John was directly connected to his, though with any luck the boy hadn’t realized it yet. Sherlock spared a rare thought of praise for his brother and his love of convenience. 

He didn’t knock on John’s door when he entered. An illusion of independence was fine, but John should always be reminded of Sherlock’s status. For John to think differently was to invite trouble upon himself. 

A small fire kept the room comfortable from autumn’s chill. Against the wall farthest from the heat was a mattress that Sherlock knew was stuffed with straw. This was possibly the nicest room John had known despite its small size. It was a far cry from familiar mud floors and rough blankets. But Sherlock endeavored to have future interactions in his own quarters. 

Sherlock’s fur rugs and feather bed were infinitely preferable. And there would be far more space for them to…work with. He was sure John would agree. 

The boy in question was in the process of removing his outer tunic. Leaving him clad in nothing but his breeches and his undershirt. 

John blinked at the intrusion, but didn’t attempt to cover himself or get dressed. Clearly he thought Sherlock’s entrance was a prelude to an emergency. 

“…My lord?” John asked when Sherlock remained quiet by his door, “Is there…something I can help you with?”

Sherlock held back a smirk. What a delightfully innocent presentation of a very suggestive question. “In a way, yes,” Sherlock answered.

He stepped into the room, closing the door behind himself. 

John clearly noted the implications of being alone, because he stood up straighter, as if preparing to intimidate someone. Sherlock thought the action was suiting, John fitting himself into a role others didn’t expect of him. 

“I thought we could take this time to discuss our arrangement in further detail,” Sherlock said as he stalked towards John. 

John noticed, but he didn’t move away. Sherlock took away a dozen meanings from that. John was a boy who often had to fend for himself and his sister, against vagabonds and his own blood alike. 

But Sherlock knew that John was not one to take an oath of fealty lightly; especially if it meant execution and constant shame for his sister if he did. That would make things incredibly easier, even if John did not like it. 

But Sherlock did not particularly care about that. 

“…What more is there to discuss my lord? Do you need my help right now?” Sherlock could tell that the serf was trying hard not to appear insolent. John did want this job, and was grateful for the king’s generosity, but an eccentric lord showing up after sleeping hours was cause for mistrust in anyone with sense. 

Sherlock smirked and said, “In a manner of speaking.” His eyes flicked over toward the straw bed. 

John’s eyes narrowed briefly in confusion, but the comprehension when he glanced towards Sherlock’s line of sight made him blanch. 

“Ah, good, you understand then,” Sherlock said in a genial tone, “it’s so much more tedious when I have to unnecessarily explain myself.” The prince reached up to his own neck to begin loosening his collar, but the serf’s exclamation made him stop.

“No! I mean, yes! Yes you do have to explain yourself! My lord!” 

The prince huffed, “What exactly is there to explain? In addition to becoming my assistant, you will also fulfill certain services as my bedmate.” 

Sherlock had the pleasure of watching John’s face turn scarlet, and the prince continued before John could open his mouth, “And the manner of which you speak to your employer, your bond partner, and your _prince_ leaves something to be desired. We shall have to work on that, later.” 

Sherlock’s wolfish grin returned, and with it came an increase in his own pheromones. While Sherlock was usually loathed to use his biology before his mind, it certainly had its uses. 

Such as John’s suddenly glazed eyes, or the way his flushed face was swiftly becoming less and less about anger. But John blinked his sudden daze away, backing towards the wall to put distance between them, even while Sherlock closed it with every step.

“I-I never agreed to be your bond mate in the first place! I am happy to be of assistance but not, not in _that_ way sire,” John argued in the face of Sherlock’s leer. 

“Perhaps not explicitly,” Sherlock conceded, “but you did agree to become my helper. And this is an issue that certainly requires your aid.” The boy’s back hit the wall, and when he turned his head to see how trapped he was, Sherlock closed the distance. 

Now, he loomed over the omega, one arm resting above the boy’s head, the other blocking off his escape. The way that Sherlock demonstrated his dominance over the situation was, admittedly, heavy-handed. But Sherlock enjoyed showing how easy it was for him to disregard personal space and place himself wherever he pleased.

Sherlock still did not technically touch John, but there was such little distance between them that it hardly mattered. The heat from Sherlock’s body filled the air that separated them. The prince inhaled deeply, smelling his own arousal as well as the faint but savory traces from the Omega. 

John blushed even deeper from arousal and indignation, “I don’t have to…to help with _that_ in any way! I’m unbonded, and I intend to remain as such, sire! Now if you don’t step away I’ll-“

“You’ll do what exactly,” Sherlock interrupted snidely, “call the guards? They won’t enter this wing tonight, believe me. I suppose you could always run away, but you have no home to go to. And you’ve already sworn fealty to me, in front of the entire royal court no less. You, and by extension your sister, would be charged with treason before you even stepped outside of the castle walls. And trying to fight me would result in the same punishment, if not a harsher one, based on my brother’s mood. Though, admittedly, I would find your futile attempts to overpower me amusing.”

To demonstrate, Sherlock snatched John’s wrist in one hand, and did the same with the other. Both of John’s wrists were raised above his head before the serf had realized what had happened. Smiling darkly at John’s bewilderment, Sherlock guided John towards the bed. One hand kept John’s wrists together while the other steered him at the waist. 

He pushed the serf down onto the soft bedding, and enjoyed the huffed breath of surprise. Before the boy had time to react, Sherlock was already on top of him. 

His thighs kept John’s hips still, while his long fingers easily kept John’s wrists pinned above him. Sherlock highly doubted that John really wanted to escape. John’s eyes were wide and dark with unexpected arousal, and the tiny shifts of his hips was for seeking friction, not leverage. But Sherlock enjoyed the base pleasure of asserting his authority. He watched the boy’s tongue dart out to wet his lips. And saw how John’s breath quickened with lust and realization over his own helplessness. 

With his free hand, he tilted John’s chin up so he could stare directly into those blue eyes. Sherlock could see defiance there, but it was largely overrun by resignation to his personal desires. Either the boy had seen the sense in Sherlock’s words, or his own body had taken precedent. Deciding the reasoning didn’t matter, Sherlock easily slid his mouth over John’s. 

At first, there was just gentle pressure. Sherlock had a few fumblings with other high born peers, all of them bored with their luxurious livelihoods and all of them shaking with excitement over something as sinfully forbidden as kissing another boy. 

But those had been awkward and quick presses of lips before moving on to more carnal fumblings. And Sherlock had never been so overcome with the desire to consume. He indulged himself in the soft and thin press of John’s mouth. He lightly lapped at the skin with his tongue, and Sherlock’s heart stammered when the boy opened his mouth. Surprise or invitation, it didn’t matter. 

He softly licked at the insides of John’s mouth, tasting John’s tongue and tracing over his teeth. John moaned underneath him, and Sherlock felt him buck his hips in sharp demand. Sherlock grinned wickedly, before he softly bit John’s tongue. 

It wasn’t enough to even register as pain, just enough to make John gasp and arch under his grip. The hold on John’s chin had moved towards the back of his head, where Sherlock grasped John’s hair, a touch on the side of painful, and held him still while Sherlock thoroughly kissed him. 

Sherlock began to feel John push against the hand that trapped him. His small hips thrust upward, growing even more impatient for sensation. Sherlock bit John’s lip harder in retaliation. 

“Sire,” John hissed, his mouth muffled but insistent, “Hurry up.”

Sherlock slowly kissed his way down John’s neck. 

“Making demands John? That’s not exactly intelligent of you,” Sherlock replied, biting and sucking on John’s neck between every other word. John squirmed even more underneath him.

Sherlock squeezed the pinned hands, continuing to talk between harsh and gentle nips on the tan neck, “If you think this will be a quick process John, you’re sorely disillusioned.”

He moved his face to hover over John’s, and saw the boy’s confusion over the unfamiliar words. 

“Mistaken,” Sherlock clarified, “Or, in cruder terms you might better understand, I don’t plan to use you as a quick fuck, John. I plan to take you apart. Slowly. Until you can’t remember anything except the pleasure I give you.”

John’s eyes widened and his body shook from his shaky inhalation. He went rigid, as if escape were something he was now truly considering. Sherlock wondered if John had thought he could deal with this better if it was over quickly. 

The idea that John still didn’t understand that this would be more than a single occurrence angered Sherlock. But he repressed his annoyance. John would find out what was in store for him soon enough. 

John settled whatever anxieties plagued his mind, and he relaxed again in Sherlock’s hold. 

Satisfied and smiling, Sherlock leaned back down to kiss him. When John was again breathless, Sherlock moved back towards his neck. 

“And I would prefer it if you called me Sherlock, when we’re alone. The need for formalities in this situation is a bit awkward, don’t you think?” Sherlock chuckled against John’s neck when he heard the boy snort. This quickly turned to a groan when Sherlock nibbled at the taut skin. He squeezed the juncture of John’s wrists, and removed his grip.

John kept them where they were. 

Sherlock kissed his way behind John’s ear, down his neck, and across his slowly exposed clavicle as Sherlock pulled at the ties of the undershirt. With short tugs, the leather strings came undone and he pushed the coarse fabric aside. 

Tanned skin and wiry muscle was soon exposed to Sherlock’s teeth and lips. Leisurely he made his way down, taking his time over each new piece. Though John was young, he was marked with the scars of the hard working. Here, a slip of faulty equipment; here, an animal that had become too riled; here, a branch switch from a tyrant of a father. 

Each one Sherlock traced with his lips until it was as if he alone had raised the flesh. 

His lips locked over one of John’s darkened nipples, and he sucked on the nub while slowly rubbing circles with his thumb over the other. John arched and moaned, but he kept his hands above his head. 

Sherlock gently swirled his tongue over and over again, enjoying the way John pushed his chest further towards Sherlock’s lips.

He pulled away with a soft sound, moving over to repeat the same stimulations. His fingers rolled and pinched the wet nub between his fingers to keep it raised and sensitive. John’s heels dug into the bed, and a keening noise escaped his mouth. 

Sherlock felt a wicked impulse flash through him, and he was hardly one to ignore such feelings. Smiling impishly, Sherlock bit down. Certainly not enough to draw blood, but as he sucked at the bite, a bright pink mark rose to the surface of John’s golden skin. Experience let Sherlock know that it would darken to a noticeable purple. 

While Sherlock was absolutely pleased at this little mark, John was not. His pleasured gasp had quickly turned to a confused and then an outraged cry. His hands shot down to Sherlock’s dark curls in an effort to pull him away.

“Ouch! That hurt! Get off!” John protested. But before he had even realized Sherlock had moved, his wrists were back to being pinned under one ridiculously long and pale hand. This time, John didn’t take to it meekly.

John growled at Sherlock’s smug look and bucked underneath him. “Why in the hell did you bite me? Get off!” 

“I rather felt like marking you,” Sherlock replied, “were you upset with the location? Would you rather I branded you somewhere more noticeable?” 

He pulled John’s head to the side, and John growled at the rough treatment before the noise turned into a gasp. Sherlock worried at the skin above John’s collarbone with hard nips and sucks until it was satisfyingly wet under his lips.

When he pulled back, the mark was even darker and larger than the previous one. And unless John wore a high collared shirt, it would be easily noticeable. There went the possibility for keeping Mycroft’s court members guessing. Oh well, that was his brother’s problem. Sherlock rubbed his thumb over the bruise, pressing down with alternating pressure. The shape made it appear as though he had stained John’s skin with ink from his smearing thumb. 

“Ah,” Sherlock said with a false tone of realization, “or is it that I’m deviating from the usual placement?” 

John’s eyes, which were hazy with pleasure, cleared slightly from confusion. Sherlock felt delighted at the sight before he quickly flipped John over onto his stomach. Before the boy had a chance to arch his back, Sherlock latched his teeth onto John’s nape.

Immediately, John’s muscles lost all of their tension as if a string had been cut. A high whine left John’s throat that he didn’t even try to stop. 

Sherlock, in order to hear that noise again, gently gnawed over the spot. And he bit even harder when John’s arse began to rub against Sherlock’s erection. John’s hands, still pinned under Sherlock’s, began scratching at the bed in order to regain some sense of stability. Breathy gasps and moans were muffled when John buried his face into the coarse mattress. 

Sherlock lost himself in those soft sounds until he registered the scent of an aroused Omega slowly filling the air. Sherlock moved his free hand from John’s hip to the back of his trousers, and smiled against John’s neck at what he found.

“Wet already, John? Perhaps I was mistaken. You really aren’t enjoying this at all,” Sherlock mocked as his long fingers moved around to John’s groin. He stroked over John’s erection, chuckling as the boy bucked and gasped into the touch. 

“Oh yes,” Sherlock murmured, “positively disgusted aren’t you?” 

Sherlock plucked at the leather strings until they became loose. Once he had enough room, his hand shoved itself down the front of John’s trousers to palm and rub at the naked flesh. 

“Fuck,” John moaned. He tugged his wrists, but Sherlock’s grip remained strong. All he could do was shift his hips encouragingly into Sherlock’s palm. 

While Sherlock wanted nothing more than to rub himself to completion while biting John’s nape as the little trollop squirmed in Sherlock’s grip, the smell of John’s arousal was too enticing to ignore. 

Sherlock quickly tugged on the fabric until John’s arse was bared to the slightly chill air. The prince ran his long fingers up and down John’s dripping hole, hissing in sharp pleasure from the feeling of the warm slickness. 

He slipped a long finger inside easily, and John grunted in surprise. Sherlock glided his finger in and out, unhurriedly feeling John’s body clench around him. John quickly realized that the fabric around his thighs further immobilized him, so he couldn’t part his legs like every instinct was shouting at him to do. 

Sherlock noticed John was trying to present himself, and smirked at the futile effort. He added another finger, grinning at John’s soft gasps. The wetness was beginning to drip onto the bed in fat globs, making a damp puddle. Sherlock slowly scissored the muscle, knowing that youth and inexperience would make John tighter than usual. 

But it also made him delightfully oversensitive, judging by the way John moaned as he rocked back onto Sherlock’s fingers. John’s belly fluttered pleasantly when the prince’s fingertips brushed a certain spot, and John groaned when Sherlock pressed against it a little more deliberately.

The sound prompted Sherlock to remove his hand from John’s wrists, only to wrap it around the boy’s erection. John gasped, and remained slumped forward. The sensations coursed through him, turning his body pliant and making movement impossible. 

Sherlock shifted himself down until he could see his pale fingers moving in and out of John’s dripping hole. The sight caused his own cock to throb in need, but he ignored it. He carefully added a third finger, watching as the skin stretched around his crowded digits. Sherlock saw John’s muscles spasm with pleasure, and he suddenly felt overwhelmed with the need to make the boy _squirm_. 

Sherlock bit hard at the swell of John’s backside and stroked John’s stiff prick in the same instant. John’s fists clenched so hard his nails bit into his calloused palms, and he came with a high whine that he was unsuccessful in stifling. 

Sherlock kissed and sucked his new bite mark until it became as dark as the ones peppering John’s chest and neck. He licked it in one broad stripe, feeling darkly satisfied with it in a way he normally wasn’t with previous bedmates. The hand on John’s prick loosened its grip, mindful of the boy’s sensitivity. 

Sherlock’s fingers blindly roamed to find the wet spot of John’s release on the bed, and when he did he smeared it over John’s belly. Sherlock had no reason for it, besides a visceral desire to see the boy as filthy as possible. In both the literal and metaphorical sense. The boy did little more than mumble in protest at the act, as he was still attempting to remember how to breathe. 

While John was slowly gathering himself back together, Sherlock stripped himself of all of his clothes. He hissed at the cold air that brushed against his hot prick, but a few strokes of his own hand took care of that discomfort. 

Sherlock was already achingly hard, and had been since he had pushed the serf onto the bed. This had to be the longest he had drawn out his own pleasure, when most of his dalliances had been quick fumblings towards a mutual goal. But he found that forestalling himself held its own merits, such as watching the boy become a messy and sweaty heap. Sherlock noticed John had started to curl in on himself, as if he was preparing to sleep. 

“Oh, did you think we were done?” Sherlock asked innocently, as he tugged at John’s clinging trousers. The motion forced the serf onto his side, and John squawked in protest at the treatment. Sherlock tossed the fabric away, climbing back onto the bed and over the boy. 

John’s eyes widened at the realization that this was nowhere near over. He quickly sat up, directly facing the overbearing Alpha who had thrown his life into chaos in the span of a few hours. His gaze roamed Sherlock’s body, coming to rest on the prince’s groin. A severe blush took hold of John’s face, and he felt the warm prickles of arousal begin again in his stomach. The blush intensified when he felt his own wetness seeping from him. A natural response to an Alpha that had given him his bite claim and was preparing to mount, but it was still embarrassing. 

He didn’t have a long time to remain ashamed. The prince pushed him down onto his back until John could see nothing but pale flesh and hungry silver eyes. 

“You’ve already forgotten, John,” Sherlock murmured as he placed the boy’s legs around his hips, “I plan to reduce you to nothing but a sated little harlot. And I’ve barely begun to unravel you.” 

He curled himself forward until John’s hips were raised off of the mattress. Sherlock kept one hand on John’s waist, while the other rested above the boy’s head. Sherlock continued to stare into John’s warm blue eyes as he rubbed his engorged cock over the Omega’s stretched and leaking hole. He studiously watched as John’s eyes closed and his reddened mouth fell open at the rough friction. 

With a small shift of his hips, the head of Sherlock’s cock pushed into John’s body. The boy immediately wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck to keep from flying apart. 

Slowly but unfalteringly steady, Sherlock pushed himself inside of the serf. Even with all of the previous preparation and the looseness that came from release, John was unused to the presence of an Alpha inside of him. It showed in the grip of his body and his desperate gasps for air. 

When Sherlock was a little less than halfway seated, the boy clutched at Sherlock’s back pleading, “Stop! Just-wait. Wait, please.” 

Sherlock, to his own surprise, obeyed. While the boy tried to adjust to the hot flesh stretching him open, Sherlock was forced to focus on his own pleasure. He could feel the Omega’s muscles quivering under his touch and squeezing around his cock. If he stayed still enough, he could even detect the faintest flutter of a heartbeat surrounding his prick. The sweet torture was enough to make Sherlock grind his teeth to regain control. 

John gasped when he felt Sherlock’s cock twitch inside of him, and he looked up at the prince’s face in sudden curiosity. Sherlock’s eyes were tightly closed, and every muscle was practically rigid in their demand for restraint. The prince’s lips were drawn in a thin line, and John could see a hint of teeth digging into the bottom lip. The sight caused a molten gold tendril of power to curl through John’s abdomen. 

John felt his body relax, but instead of telling the prince to move, John lifted his hips as much as possible, taking more of the prince’s length in one slide. 

Sherlock gasped as if he had been punched. His eyes opened just in time to watch the boy throw his head back and groan at the feeling of being claimed even deeper than before. 

And with that, the prince lost all sense of control. He brought his other hand down to tightly grip the boy’s waist as he grinded deeper into the serf. As John keened, Sherlock bit and licked over his exposed neck. He could already smell the Omega’s scent mingling with his own, marking and claiming him. Any fool with a nose would be able to tell that the boy had been taken, as if the dark spots dotting his neck wouldn’t already give it away. 

Growling at the thought, Sherlock began to move himself in small thrusts. He was barely moving in and out of John’s body, when the boy suddenly clenched even tighter around him. Sherlock felt small nails digging frenzied scratches into his shoulders. The boy went slightly lax in the next second, and Sherlock realized that the Omega had come again.

John was still panting brokenly from Sherlock’s thrusts, as the Alpha hadn’t stopped moving, only now it was interspersed with nonsensical mumblings. Sherlock could barely make out the words ‘too much’. 

The boy was practically undone. Any more stimulation, and he would either come again or be driven to the brink of sanity. 

Sherlock’s sadistic smile was hidden in John’s collarbone. 

Sherlock snapped his hips with fervor. His cock pulled in and out in long stretches, pushing him deeper with every thrust. 

John choked on his own scream. He tightly squeezed Sherlock’s neck with his arms, helplessly riding the sensations. Each thrust hit unerringly against the entrance to his vaginal passage, making him slicker and itching for just the right angle. 

Then the head of Sherlock’s prick was finally _there_. John keened sharply, “Fuck, Sherlock!” 

And the rest of his voice was drowned out with guttural sounds when Sherlock kept parting him deep inside. 

Sherlock could feel his release cresting over him, lost in the haze of his own arousal. He watched John’s features twist in pleasure that was almost too much for his body to understand. Sherlock licked a trail up the Omega’s cheek, following the line of a freshly fallen tear. He felt the boy spasming again, and new that his release was close. Sherlock’s own need came to the forefront of his mind. He had succeeded in reducing this previously proud farm hand into a desperate and whining mess. The thought sent a jolt of dark arousal down his spine. 

Sherlock felt his knot swell, but it was not enough for it to fully trap him inside of the Omega’s body. It was too far outside of the Mating Time for that to happen. Instead, it merely widened him enough that the Omega was forced to accommodate more flesh. And that extra bit was enough to cause the boy’s body to writhe on Sherlock’s prick. 

The boy couldn’t say the prince’s name at this point. He couldn’t even moan or beg. He just gasped and curled himself closer to Sherlock as his final orgasm wracked his overwrought body. Sherlock had time to see the Omega lose himself to ecstasy, before his own orgasm rolled through him.

His hips snapped forward and stayed there. His knot grew slightly thicker, and Sherlock could actually feel John’s muscles shifting in response. He groaned as his cock pulsed, spilling himself deep inside of John’s body. Sherlock growled and bit down on John’s neck as he came, truly claiming the boy as his. While an Omega possessed the privilege of several orgasms during a mating, the Alpha was usually limited to one. But that only meant an increased intensity. And as Sherlock continued to shudder in post bliss, he wondered if it would ever end. 

Slowly, he came back to himself, feeling more languid and satiated than he ever had before. He carefully pulled himself out of the boy, and they both hissed at the oversensitive skin rubbing against each other. Sherlock looked down between their bodies, and felt a possessive contentment at the sight. 

The boy was covered not only in his own lubrication and release, but he was shimmering with sweat, and his entrance was steadily leaking with globules of Sherlock’s seed. Smirking, Sherlock smeared some of it with his thumb and pressed a droplet back inside. He laughed when John jerked back from his touch. 

“God! Not, not yet,” John moaned, his voice hoarse, “I just—need a bit more time. Like tomorrow. Or the next moon.” 

It was then that Sherlock fully appreciated John’s appearance. His honeyed hair was tousled against the bed, and his tanned skin was spotted with bite marks and bruises. The boy’s chest was rapidly rising and falling, trying to regain breath. When Sherlock looked at John’s throat, he could see the barest detection of a heartbeat under the thin skin of his claim mark. 

The sight made something oddly masquerading as affection move through Sherlock’s chest. But he paid it no heed. 

Instead, Sherlock lay down beside the boy, moving him over to make room for Sherlock’s much longer legs and far wider chest. John could only half heartedly protest, too exhausted for anything else, “Don’t you have your own room?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, moving John’s head until it rested on his shoulder, “and we will be using it next time.” Honestly, how could anyone sleep in this? Sherlock could already imagine all manner of insects and vermin crawling inside the mattress. Although the possibility that Mycroft would allow anything in the castle that could be spread to the royalty was preposterous. But it still didn’t stop Sherlock from thinking about burning the wretched thing first thing in the morning.

“Hopefully that next time is,” John interrupted himself with a yawn, “a long ways off.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Sherlock warned and promised in the same sentence. 

“Yeah, well, your Royalness will be forced to wait when I can’t even stand up tomorrow,” John mumbled. 

‘Royalness’ wasn’t a word. Sherlock was about to comment on it until he realized that John had fallen asleep. To distract himself from the certainty of hundreds of mice living in their scratchy abomination of a sleeping place, Sherlock traced absent patterns on John’s back. 

He didn’t stop until well into the morning of the next day, when John finally woke up.

**Author's Note:**

> A quick note to all of you who have been so patient with me for my other works, thank you so much.
> 
> While I can never guarantee the date of a project's update, I can always promise you that I will never abandon a story once I've started on it. Please keep that in mind, and I appreciate your support more than you can know.


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